These dreams

These dreams

Are a chill of nightheld unknowing

When waking in the heat of

Baking bodies, 

like a field of savannah wheat,

Blowing in the sun, 

Where flaking bark

of trees, dry like your look,

When in your garden seat

I showed you the book I

Had written for you.


Then in the guise of more

Than a wraith-triad you began to

Haunt me. 


It was more than

a taunt. I saw your thrill

In my unknowing. A chill

was your prize and I was

Bitten by you, a dryad. 

All lies.


So I ran. How I ran.

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